


Bad Dates, Mad Fates

by sysrae



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad dates, Cop!Aveline, F/F, Fed!Cassandra, First Dates, Tumblr made me do it, kissing ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cassandra and Aveline go on a terrible date, but somehow make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Dates, Mad Fates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skybone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/gifts), [hawkwing_lb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkwing_lb/gifts).



> This fic is ENTIRELY TUMBLR'S FAULT, and the initial prompt with which I brought this on myself (with bonus!fanart) is here: http://fozmeadows.tumblr.com/post/135190983386/re-dragon-age-problem-does-this-mean-well-get
> 
> DAMN YOU ALL.

 

The date was going so terribly, Cassandra felt perversely vindicated in having accepted it. 'I don't need to be _set up,'_ she'd snapped at Varric, just before he twisted her metaphorical arm. The fact that she'd let him do it didn't mean she hadn't also been right to protest, and now, in the form of Aveline Vallen, she had incontestable proof to that effect. 

Cassandra liked hard evidence. It was what made her good at her job. She loved being a federal agent, and under most social circumstances, she was more than happy to go into detail about why. But dates, as she'd already, patiently explained to Varric, and especially first dates, were the one arena in which she preferred to talk about, oh,  _literally anything else_ . Dates were where she went to be off duty: only once she'd gotten to know a partner did she like to invite them in to that part of her life. Varric, by his own admission, had never understand this preference, but as Cassandra didn't require him to, it usually wasn't a problem. 

Except that, now, it was; because Aveline Vallen was a homicide detective – a fact which Varric had known full well – and the only time she'd shut up about her  _goddamn_ job since they sat down at the bar was when she drew breath to order. 

'– so the case went cold, or we thought it did,' Aveline said, at a speed just shy of gabbling, 'but then, a week later –'

'Stop,' said Cassandra – sudden, cold, and all out of patience. 'Just – stop.'

Aveline did so, her mouth hanging open a little, cheeks as red as her hair. A very small part of Cassandra approved the combination; the rest of her focussed on scowling.

'I'm sorry,' Aveline said, tightly. Her mouth was pinched with anger or embarrassment or possibly both, Cassandra couldn't tell. 'I didn't mean to bore you.'

'You're not  _boring_ , per se,' Cassandra said, aware that this was a casually vicious remark but too exasperated to care. 'I just didn't come here to talk about  _work_ , of all things.'

'Really?' snapped Aveline. 'And did you come to talk at all? You've barely said ten words to me since you got here!'

'I might have done,' said Cassandra, stung, 'if you'd given me the chance!'

'My apologies,' said Aveline, scathing. 'Was that gaping, minute-long silence when we first sat down an insufficient venue for your wit, or did I just imagine it?'

It was Cassandra's turn to flush. 'I wasn't – I was wrongfooted,' she said, hating the admission. 'You weren't what I was expecting.'

'Oh? Too plain? Too tall? Too  _cop_ ?' There was a sting in the words, but bitterly so, and Cassandra's gut gave an ugly lurch at the realisation that these were Aveline's real insecurities. Aveline seemed to realise in the same instant what she'd betrayed of herself, and looked away, taking a furious sip of wine.

'You just –' Cassandra tried. Faltered. Shut her mouth, completely unable to articulate how, after all Varric's teasing and taunting about her singleness – about how he knew another “lady-inclined lady who's just as hopeless at getting dates as you are, which is saying something,” never mind the fact that Sera and Isabela literally  _fell down laughing_ when Cassandra let slip who Varric had set her up with – she'd been braced for Aveline herself to be... well, a joke. So demonstrably, clearly unsuitable a match that Cassandra could storm straight out again, the matter resolved forever. She'd agreed to the date out of spite, to prove it would all go badly enough that Varric would stop his pestering, and had, as such, given no thought to what she might say to actually make it  _work_ .

And then she'd seen Aveline, who looked like a lean-hipped Valkyrie, threads of red hair escaping from a knotted bun coiled low on her head, and Cassandra had been utterly struck dumb.

All of a sudden, she saw the night through Aveline's eyes: the other woman had come here in good faith, only to be stonewalled by Cassandra's prickly silence. Likely as not, she'd started talking shop out of sheer nervousness, their jobs the only thing she knew for sure they had in common, and rather than contribute or try to change the subject, Cassandra had let her ramble on before finally, rudely snapping.

'I'm sorry,' she said, squeezing the stem of her glass. 'I... I'm not very good at this. At any of this. I've been horrible company.'

'You have,' allowed Aveline, stiff but not unyielding.

Cassandra's lips twitched in an almost-smile. 'I appreciate the honesty.'

'You deserve nothing less.'

'Ouch,' she said, but there was a bare flash of humour on Aveline's face that softened it, and in the silence that followed, Cassandra felt them both relax a little.

'So,' said Aveline, after a moment. 'If you don't want to talk policework, name the topic.'

_Tit for tat_ , Cassandra thought, and reached into the vulnerable core of herself, to offer up a suitably penitent truth. 'How do you feel about poetry?'

That startled a laugh from Aveline, bright and glorious. 'Poetry! Now, there's a shock.'

'If you disapprove –'

'I never said that.' Aveline's smile was smaller, softer. 'Actually, I've a fondness for Robert Service.'

Cassandra felt something in her lighten. 'What about Robert Frost?'

 

*

 

Getting to know Cassandra Pentaghast, Aveline thought, was less a date than a détente. Even with her shiraz in hand, she radiated  _federal agent_ , crisp white shirt and smart grey pantsuit, making Aveline's cop senses tingle with the threat of invaded territory (and, just a very little, with the promise of something else). Her eyes were storm grey, wide and intense, her black hair trimmed in a pixie cut that set off her startling cheekbones. Perversely, it was the scar on her jaw that softened her: a sign of raw humanity, that her armour could be chinked. Aveline was trying not to stare at it, but the more she drank – and she'd already done more of that than she'd ever meant to, nervous reflex putting her planned restraint to flight – the harder it was not to simply reach out and run her thumb across it.

Cassandra was... Aveline wanted to say  _difficult_ , but only because she was feeling residually uncharitable. She was awkward, certainly, but combined with her straight-backed demeanour, it was the kind of trait that saw men called  _professionally reserved_ and women mocked as  _prickly_ , and even nettled, Aveline refused to endorse the stereotype. God, and it likely didn't help that Varric had been the one to set them up, either: Aveline had known him for years, was immune to his particular brand of sarcastic teasing and knew enough of the intellect underlying it to trust his judgement anyway, even – or perhaps especially – if his delivery of it made her want to punch him in the face. But Cassandra, she knew, was a newer acquaintance than that, and Varric's uniquely autonomous role in the grand governmental hierarchy compared to Cassandra's fixed job description likely meant she was yet to parse his bullshit from his bullseyes. 

_I am going to_ murder  _him_ , Aveline thought, because it was always good to have a scapegoat. And then, as Cassandra's long fingers tapped against her throat, pale and inviting, she amended, with a slight gulp, _Politely, though. I will murder him_ very politely. 

Détente thus established, they talked about, in no particular order: poetry, wine, family, foreign films (Cassandra, it turned out, spoke fluent French, and Aveline spent an embarrassed two minutes trying desperately to pretend she didn't have a language kink when given a demonstration), and gun control laws, on which potentially dealbreaker topic they were both in complete agreement.

When the bill came, they split it amicably, headed out of the bar, and stopped together on the pavement.

'This was, ah –' Cassandra's gaze flicked guiltily sideways, '– well, barring my initial behaviour, it was certainly very... enjoyable. And I would, if you –'

'We could do this again,' said Aveline, lips twitching. 'If you wanted.'

Cassandra smiled at her, wide and grateful; it was, by an order of magnitude, the most relaxed, genuine expression to have crossed her face all evening. The effect of it was transformative, so much so that Aveline's stomach fluttered, a fierce blush creeping up her neck.

'Well, then,' she said, grinning. 'Goodnight, Cassandra.'

'Goodnight, Aveline.'

And then they both walked off in the  _exact same direction_ . 

Mortification curdled through Aveline, head to toes. Oh, god,  _Christ_ – they'd finally gotten past the fucking awkwardness, and now they were right back to square one, all easiness gone as they cut through the same damn sidestreet to the same damn parking garage, too mutually embarrassed to either talk or hang back. Aveline snuck a glance at Cassandra, whose gaze was fixed determinedly on the ground, and was on the brink of attempting a joke to lighten the mood when she realised – belatedly, given her agitated state – that they were being followed.

The back of her neck began to prickle. She kept her eyes on Cassandra, mutely trying to convey her sudden, unerring sense that something was wrong, but for all her opposition to talking shop back at the bar, Cassandra's realisation was as sudden as her own. She flicked a sharp glance at Aveline, and in moment of silent communication, they assessed the situation. Two pairs of footsteps behind them, heavy and increasing in speed, while up ahead, a third shape loomed beside a convenient dumpster.

'I came straight from work,' said Aveline, voice low: meaning, _I'm still armed_. 'You?'

'Likewise,' Cassandra said, and her grin was sharp and furious. 'You want to take point?'

'First time a fed's ever offered me that.'

'Was that a refusal?'

'Hell, no.'

'Evening, ladies!' The dumpster-lurker stepped into view, leering at the pair of them. He was white, unshaven and – Aveline's heart sped up – that was absolutely a gun in his hand. She feigned shock, letting momentum carry her an extra step forward, muscles tensed for action. Peripherally, she was aware of Cassandra shifting her stance; of the crucial cessation of footsteps behind them.

'Now,' said the mugger, 'this doesn't have to get ugly, pretties.' He chuckled at his own joke. _Fucking amateur hour,_ Aveline thought, struggling not to roll her eyes: not only had the asshole stopped her well inside of twenty-one feet, he wasn't even pointing the gun at either of them – just lolling it in his hand, like he expected the showing alone to be enough. 'Just hand over your valuables, and –'

Aveline moved like the pro she was, surging forward in a sharp, sudden burst to grab his wrist and twist his gun-hand up behind his back. Digging her fingers in between the bones of his wrist, she kicked down hard at the back of his knee: the gun spasmed free of his hand and he dropped, shouting in pain as her grip damn near dislocated his shoulder. Meanwhile, beside her – or beside where she'd been, and in the same instant, as synchronised as if they'd timed it – Cassandra had turned and pulled her own gun on the hapless grunts who'd come up behind them.

'I'm a Federal Agent!' she barked. 'Put your hands on your heads and kneel the fuck down, or I'll shoot!'

'Christ allfuckingmighty!' one guy yelped, while Aveline's collar thrashed and whined in her grip.

'Shit!' he whispered. 'Shit, fuck –'

'You stay where you are,' said Aveline, 'or I'll have you for resisting arrest, too.'

'Shit,' he moaned again.

Aveline could've laughed.

The logistics of the next ten minutes might have been somewhat tricky, being as how they only had two sets of handcuffs between three criminals, if not for the fact that, while Cassandra cuffed the first of them, the second goon tried to run. Aveline, preoccupied with cuffing the lead mugger, opened her mouth to shout a warning, but before she'd made so much as a peep, Cassandra leapt up and pistolwhipped him soundly across the back of the head. He yelped, staggered and fell back down, clutching his skull.

'Unless you want me to shoot you,' Cassandra said, dryly, 'I'd consider staying put.'

'Fuck you, lady!' he spat out, but Aveline could see he was shaking, and with Cassandra's gun on him, he didn't move again.

It was Aveline who called it in, and Cullen who showed up with the cavalry, evidently having been unable to resist the irony of his partner getting waylaid on her first goddamn date in forever. As all three muggers were bundled away in squad cars, the injured one protesting vocally, Cullen looked her over, eyes crinkling up with amusement.

'Only you, Vallen,' he chuckled. 'There's a story to tell the grandkids!'

Cassandra was just far enough away that Aveline couldn't tell if she was still in earshot. 'Hush!' she hissed at him, trying to neither smile nor blush and not quite succeeding. 'God, what a truly ridiculous night. If Isabela cracks so much as a single joke about nightsticks, I may throttle her with police tape.'

Cullen shuddered. 'Don't say her name; you'll summon her!'

'Summon who?' said Cassandra, walking up with one brow raised. There was a snap to her stride, a spark to her gaze that hadn't been there before, and damned if the combination wasn't fetching as all hell.

'Isabela,' said Aveline, knowing she was another mutual friend of Cassandra's. 'Cullen here thinks she's the devil.'

'I don't _think_ anything,' Cullen muttered darkly. 'I _know_.' He looked set to say more, but one of the uniforms was waving him over, and so he settled for flashing a quick grin and leaving.

'Well!' said Cassandra, as he departed. 'That was bracing and unexpected, if a little more work-oriented than I usually like my dates.' But she smiled, taking any sting from it, and Aveline was helpless not to smile back.

'In that case,' she said, 'I'll have to make it up to you next time.'

The barest touch of pink coloured Cassandra's cheeks. 'Oh? With what?'

 _Oh, to hell with it,_ Aveline thought, and stepped in close, and kissed her. She meant for it to be gentle, but as Cassandra responded by grabbing her hips and tugging her in, the kiss turned deep and hungry. Aveline let momentum carry them back against a wall, Cassandra gasping into her as Aveline thumbed her scar.

When they finally broke apart, they were panting a little, both wide-eyed, dishevelled and smiling.

'I'll think of something,' Aveline said, and kissed her again – more softly, as in promise.

Maybe she wouldn't kill Varric, after all.

 


End file.
